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Nat Lipstadt Apr 6
My Prize for Waiting
tucked in all by myself,
resting dark and quiet
in the thin place^
where the distance between
this world and the next,
is no distance at all,
but  a few inches separating,
easily fordable, back and forth-able

my palms, hands down,
come to rest on my *******
and the two thumbs in unison,
begin to sweep the streaming space of their in-between,
conducting a radar sweep-search for the precise point
passageway to poetic mystical places,
hoping to snag any residuals for safekeeping

no hurry to either arrive or depart,
in patient attendance for
rhythms of woven word arrivistes,
coming in no particular order,
asking to be seized, greedy to be
nominated and recognized, immortalized,
as great poetry, prize worthy,
kept for all time inside others poetry chests

but in the thin place,
dream records are not kept,
hazy scraps at best retained,
a recipe for a witnessed totality,
is only a soupy reduction of a
few seconds of hazed video,
that can neither give nor get
no satisfaction

the plastic surgeons attempt to reconstruct
the body of the meal, the real deal,
alas, there are no prizes either
for botched surgeries and pretty but meaningless
poetry scraps

the only evidence of my travels,
a flushing, blushing residual flow,
slow to dissipate, a hangover makers mark
of a sojourn best described as unsatisfying,
my blush, a prize for waiting but failing,
“the most peculiar and most human of all expressions”^^

woe to me when returned in ignominy,
medaled in only base irony,
me and philosopher Pliny,^^^
both dying while recording our own private Vesuvius,
our bodies preserved by voluminous volcanic ash,
but alas, you cannot recite the ash of poetry

so one waits, cut and pasting brown edged
burnt photographs epistles,
that are clinging and clung to the distaff spindle,
insufficient to weave a flax complete

and yet we return perforce twenty four hours from now,
to snag another prized piece of meaningless,
my prize for waiting
in the solitude of the thin place

3:35am Saturday April 6th, 2019

last nights scrap

cease your whining,
seize your waiting,
therein is your own paid price
for the prize of inspiration

inspired by Jean Fisher,
a real prize winning poet
^”It turns out these destinations have a name: thin places. ... No, thin places are much deeper than that. They are locales where the distance between heaven and earth collapses and we're able to catch glimpses of the divine, or the transcendent or, as I like to think of it, the Infinite Whatever”. The New York Times

^^ Charles Darwin on blushing

^^^ “For my part I deem those blessed to whom, by favour of the gods, it has been granted either to do what is worth writing of, or to write what is worth reading; above measure blessed those on whom both gifts have been conferred. In the latter number will be my uncle, by virtue of his own and of your compositions.”   Pliny the Younger to his uncle, Pliny the Elder, who most likely died in the eruption of Mt. Vesuvius while trying to save a friend.
In my black bathroom steamy w/ kitcheny goodness,
I stare w/ dumbfound familiarity at my underwater
prunes of procreation. Then turn my attention
to a dead moth, whose variegation, colourations bladdayah
yap pap
ring a bell of shells: precious wentletraps, mitre & helmet shells,
argonauts' earphones. Rashspaced tiger cowrie's spots misnomered. Conch's cremedge.  There's more dead moths
on the shelves & stickybackvinyled floor,
on the bathrim, a crisper of dead moths
like an embarrassment of dead parrots
on oblongchested shoulder of stolid, plastiplated
whitish cistern. Even a dead moth atop
the 47cm short, spitifullooking inletpipe,
ersatz chodbintestine to the sea.
Dead moths phantasmamothically festoon
my black bathroom.
I'm dehydrated, but still alter bathwater,
ammoniac infinipissimal.
Twisted bathwater I'll layer lemon 'n' lime
as I'm also unstoppably snotty,
a viro-Vesuvius of snoutslime.
But when you're ****** & deadmothy,
you're always coming down w/ the lurgee
& the times. The English subsist on blackpudding & limes.
Alessander Jul 2016
Lying in your arms
Is my vacation

Your eyes are the stars over Paris
Your lips my Spanish sangria
Your scent like Persian jasmine

When you nuzzle into my neck
And rapid kiss me, laughing
Then rest your eyelids
Lightly on my pulse

I transport to that ashen couple
As the Vesuvian magma oozes over
Forever in terrestrial communion
Embracing - as we do now
Silence Screamz Oct 2015
There is nothing darker than the putrid soul of your heart
Crusted by burnt desires and pyroclastic ash
Tortured by your existence, dipped into the hells of mankind

Bubbling skin and singed mercy embrace me whole
Turn up flames and burn me alive
Hear my screams ****** your mind

Cast me out of the dead, for I am not leaving
Laid in a forever coma then awakened
Pompeii is dead, Pompeii is dead, Pompeii is dead
Buried in volcanic ash during Mt. Vesuvius' eruption in 79 A.D., I used to live not to far from there, Pompeii is so surreal and tranquil
caspasta Jan 2015
my fury is vesuvius
and the heat will spill over
and destroy your light
light of pompeii
pompeii of the old
old darkness rises anew
(As seen from Sorrento)

The blue of the sky dips sharply
to meet the ocean, a panoramic view
broken only by Vesuvius puncturing
the horizon. It rises a thousand feet
deadly in it's beauty;
it stands for all to wonder.
Proud and powerful, yet unconcerned
it sleeps; daring to be woken

— The End —